


His eyes say closer

by Morbidfeatures, Mossbride (Morbidfeatures)



Series: Words [3]
Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbidfeatures/pseuds/Morbidfeatures, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbidfeatures/pseuds/Mossbride
Summary: Inheriting a cabin and enough money to pay off debt?Cool.Sliding insaid cabin and coming to find that a killer stalks these woods?Not cool
Relationships: Jason Voorhees/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Words [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1425526
Comments: 20
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

After a long drive with miles of endless woods, I made it. My new home squats between endless amounts of massive trees that dwarfed those that I'm used to seeing in my neighborhood park.

The rickety roof looks about ready to cave in and the peeling white paint does little to add appeal. I can sense the potential for beauty with this fixer-upper lying under the surface. 

However, the most striking thing to me is the smell, moss and grass and dirt and all kinds of greenery that had been kept from me in the stagnant grey of the city.

I sat in my car nervously scratching a mosquito bite. This is as far from civilization as I ever made it and I feel a mixture of emotions that I can't easily identify. It rolls uncomfortably in my stomach, Is it happiness? No.

Mostly I'm a serene kind of tired with a hint of disbelief as my eyes flicker to the trees and long grass. 

Never in my life had I thought that I would be able to own a house. Hell, I'd never gotten close to buying my own mini microwave. I was the bane of my previous roommate's existence. Unable to pay my rent share no matter how low.

Money, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small plot of land to go with it _and_ it's close to a lake. All thanks to a dead uncle twice removed.

I got out of the car, stretched the painful muscles in my leg then grabbed my one moving box filled with mostly clothes and essentials and approached the door slowly. The yard didn't have much in the form of a walkway but a trail of stomped down mud served as good as any stone.

I fumble with the keys and push the door open. Once my eyes adjust to the low-level of light I notice that the walls are filled with photos of all sizes. The only ones that have recognizable human faces are of the same balding old man with a severe frown on his tanned face, my uncle. 

I study a few of the frames. All those different places, Niagara Falls, Lady Liberty, the Alamo... must have been lonely, especially for an old man who, if my snotty aunt Chelie was to be believed, barely spoke a lick of English. I fidget in sympathy. Knowing how hard it is to connect with people. 

In a day and age where there are billions of humans and more people than ever are able to connect with the help of technology the majority still feel alone in cities and towns of thousands. Unable or unwilling to look at each other on bus stops and subways. The familiar faces you see outside your apartment complex year after year are still strangers you have never spoken a word to the. Co-workers at work that feign interest and team input are just as miserable and socially inept as the next man.

I shake those thoughts off. Wouldn't want to start another existential episode without my dog, Ricky, here.

There's a small dusty radio on an empty shelf. I step closer, it's in good shape and awfully pretty too. I might keep it.

I check the small kitchen first, opening the small fridge door I release an involuntary gag, slamming it closed. It's empty and smells like rotting fish. Might have to get rid of that. 

The cupboard is clear of dishes and the sink water works. I twist the hot one next and jump at the awful screeching the pipe emits. I shut it off. Okay, so I possibly need a new fridge, someone to check the pipes, groceries, and dishes. I have plenty of time to arrange it.

Next, I walk to the door closest to me and open it. The hinges protest, I mentally add replace door hinges to my list.

I turn the lights on and release a squeak that transforms into a disbelieving laugh, above the mirror taking up much of the bathroom is a mounted deer head with massive horns stretching from one side to the other. (Why would he put that in a bathroom?) It directly faces the toilet in a deep flower. Patches of its fur are missing as if someone chucked it through a wood chipper.

Everything else in here is normal. In the corner right front of a widow with tattered curtains there's a metal tub that has a small amount of rust, when I test the toilet it flushes, etc.

I leave to check the other two rooms. Both are bare except for the bed frames. The last one down the hall is the master bedroom I, of course, choose that one as mine and set my box of clothes on the quickly, quickly changing into a pair of jeans and a tank top.

I put on some wool gloves and with that my outfits complete, _Now_ , it's time to clean up.

Starting with that stupid deer head. I March back into the bathroom and deposit my toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter then turn to the deer. 

Its glassy eyes bore down at me accusing. 

"I'm not the one that shot you." I shoot back. Don't look at me like that mister.

The head is pretty massive. How am I going to take it off? There are a couple of screws on the wooden plaque and I don't own a screwdriver.

I decide to give it a try anyway and pull on the antlers, with a grunt it comes off shockingly easy. I stumble, lungs seizing and I can't stop the attack of sneezes and coughs as the plume of dust on its patchy fur rose.

As heavy as I thought it would be. I carry it out onto the living room with great difficulty.

The moving van honks outside, parking. I wave the three movers inside helping in what little way I can as they carry in my mattress, vanity, and cabinet. It's a silent affair with only a few 'please' and 'thank you' strung between. While the men work I sit on the kitchen counter for about thirty minutes. 

As they finish up I ask one man with a fading black goatee. "Do you mind taking this thing to the dump?" I wave at the deer head lying in the living room.

He glances up from the clipboard eyes flickering to the head with a no-nonsense look. "We don't have much time."

"I'll tip you two hundred," I say. 

He smiles.

I watch as the taillight disappears from view then close the door with an exhausted puff of air, back leaning on the wooden door the empty living room scene that greets me is underwhelming.

It's obvious I need more furniture. Hell, now that I'm a rich bitch, I'll just buy one of those fancy uncomfortable looking sofas in the magazine, you know, the ones that have busty gorgeous blonde ladies strewn about them all dramatic.

I mark that as a for later. First is the repairs that need to be done. I already called a repairs company to come check the pipes and also called a man to deliver all the groceries I need. 

All in all, there's quite a bit of work to do, though it's the welcomed kind. 

I grab the broom and go to close the curtains when I catch sight of the evening sky and freeze.

It's seven fifteen, the men left not an hour ago and the descending night frightens me by how intense it looks, the woods are currently so obscured by shadow that it might as well have been midnight. There's no glow of traffic lights or street lamps to shed light among the shrubs. Crickets sing for each other among the black bobbing blobs that serve as grass.

I'm alone. Ricky is staying at a kennel until I can settle things and miles separate me and the nearest gas station.

_(God, it's so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. This is what I wanted, isn't it? It's so dark outside i can't see)_

I can't help but think that something is out there in the bush. I have never been afraid of the dark before, not even as a child. 

Logically, my head scoffs knowing if anything does stalk it would be animal but my heart isn't one for logic. 

There are so many stories that start out like this. A woman alone when she hears a loud noise outside. Much to the consternation of the audience, she goes to check outside calling out into the mysterious dark _'Who's there?'_

I clutch the broom tighter and draw the curtains shut, mechanically sweeping dust while my thoughts frequently return to the night outside my door.

Quick. Think of something else. I bite my lip, The war across the sea, presidential debate, puppies and kittens, a song I love.

That's it, music will take my mind off the fact that I'm alone where anyone can happen upon me and help wouldn't come and they'd likely get away with it. I fetch the radio and rummage through the channels, finding one that plays old tunes. 

If I had any reservations about the radio working there gone when the lyrics come in. Sharp and crisp. 

It's gonna be a long night with me and the broom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He gazes at the retreating van then back to the cabin from the distance of a few trees. He is right in the view of the window crossing in front of her car near the cabin and if she chose to look up she would see a shadow among shadows, nothing discernible.

Jason steps closer to the small structure, the girl is inside sweeping at stubborn dust and coughing into the sleeve of her shirt. The familiar radio is playing at medium volume and she hums along to herself a song he doesn't know nor care to know. It's not important.

He doesn't have to ask his mama for guidance on how to get rid of this one. At this point it's routine but he finds himself hesitating when he raised his bow and aimed at her, not on moral grounds, whatever morals he did have had since dissipated, but a voice says that she hasn't broken any rules and for that, he should leave her be.

He doesn't have rules, Another part retorts. Jason a stands still, back straight, slightly arched and fingers paused mid action.

She tucks a hair behind her ear placing a picture frame on the kitchen counter, her face clear of any exaggerated paint that makes his quarries faces too perfect and doll-like. She isn't a teenager, maybe a young woman out of her teens. 

Her head is blotted out by the tip of his arrow. 

Why did she come here alone with no friends or family? Maybe she's like the old hunter that used to live here who was content on his lonesome. Jason had watched him too.

He was a quiet man that left the forest in peace and never hunted beyond his neck of the woods respecting Jason's claim. The old man usually fell asleep inside on a cowskin rocking chair with a hat pulled over his head. He would leave the radio on and Jason would sit on a tree stump sharpening his tools listening to whatever station he had on that day. Not paying attention to anything in particular, just the nonsensical music in another language.

The hunter is dead, he saw him sleep and never wake up and the very next day an ambulance came with its loud sirens and blaring red lights spooking the birds from the treetops. A horrid sound.

They hauled his body away and that's about as much as he'd ever disturbed the forest. Who knows if this woman would prove half as respectful. 

In the end It doesn't matter, another voice argues, she's still young and will sooner or later bring over others for loud parties and sex. Dirty this land. Pollute. Dellute. Then she'll be dead.

_The game. The game!_ A million thoughts run through his head. None that he shows outwards.

The cabin she resides in is on the edge of his woods and though she's not on it he'll keep an eye out just in case

He taps the wood of his arrow, running a thumb along the point and returns it to the quiver.

He doesn't usually let them live this long but as she has not trespassed into his land she is safe. For now.

In the meantime, if she does approach he'll be setting tripwires around his property.

He lingers a moment longer, observing her struggle to reach the top of a cupboard. This woman is a tiny thing like most of her sex and he feels a flicker of amusement when she has to bring over a chair with a stack of books on top to reach.

With any luck, she'll fall and crack her head open. Then he won't have to bother with the hunt.

He walks home thinking of his mama who's probably worried. He doesn't make a habit of staying away for long intervals of time except when absolutely needs to.

He sets his bow down and lights a candlewick along with a lantern, the heavy feeling the outside world causes lifts from his shoulders when he enters his childhood room.

Facing the wall where his mother waits for him with comforting whispers and sweet words he reaches into the torn hole. This is the only place he feels safe. Protected. Loved. He lifts her from her shrine behind the wall onto his chest cradling close her as she used to do him and the world is right again in this small room. 

_'Hello, my sweet boy.'_

__________________________________


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up early and groggy but excited to begin the day. I got four hours of sleep in total. On the bright side, I was too preoccupied pulling my hair out trying to pluck the pictures from walls to care about the dark.

Today is a new day and I'm ready for any challenge this house gives me. I sit up and reach over to the moving box and find one of the last items still in there, my tin can. It was a gift from my older brother...oh..maybe ten years ago? The picture of puppies in Christmas hats had made me squeal an 'aww' when I was ten. The can itself use to hold caramel popcorn, now it holds the hopes and dreams of a small girl long gone.

Opening it brings a waft of fond memories and inside is several wrinkled, cut, catalog and fashion magazines filled with glamorous photos of clothes and furniture I wanted as a kid but our family couldn't afford and so I scrapbooked and daydreamed.

I flip through papers of artfully showcased furniture and snuggle into bed, bringing the phone onto my lap, ready to call and give child me her dream home. With the taste of an adult of course. Don't really know how these catalogs work but I figured it's as easy as 'I see, I like, I call the number.'

I pass most of the morning pouring over the pages. Some news that came as a shock to no one, after ten years these furniture stores have either closed down or don't sell that particular model. Some aren't even located in the state.

On a particular page, I pause as a cut picture falls out from its nestled place between pages and pick it up curiously. The black and white image is of a handsome man from a Disneyland resort add dressed as prince charming. 

I snort at the obnoxious amount of hearts drawn around him to form an even bigger heart. He is smiling at Cinderella herself who's face I had scratched off in some fit of girlish jealousy. 

I place it on my mirror with tape, way back then other than a pretty home with no rats I think I wanted a handsome prince to sweep me off my feet most of all. Someone to understand, have and hold. 

That...naivety is what started this mess. I was such an idiot.  _ But, god, do I still want that fantasy. _

By the time I hear a knock on the door, I've ordered a handful of items.

Including; An even bigger vanity, two love seats, a comfy dog bed for when I'm ready to pick Ricky up from the kennel (not that he'll use it. I'm half sure the mutt will sneak onto my bed when I'm dead asleep rendering the dog bed pointless.) Cream-colored curtains to replace the tattered grays my uncle left. A table with four chairs. And a warm fur rug I can strategically place over a broken piece of wood floor in the hall. I hesitated on whether or not to buy a TV and decided on a smaller model.

"Coming." I stuff the catalog into a drawer and in my pajama clothes, open the door.

The face is of a kindly man in his middle age holding a bag of tools "Hello, I'm from BMM here to check the pipes."

"Come in."

"It's the kitchen sink that's causing you trouble, Ms. Elena?"

"Ellie's just fine and Yes, The sink is right over there," I explain the issue with him and the man nods, 

"But if you could check the bathroom too if you have the time? The tub water came out a rusty brown and if it's anything serious I'll set up another appointment." I add.

He agrees.

Back in my own room, I keep waiting for a call from my family. I've been on the phone for about three hours and not a single soul has called to congratulate me, no plead for money has come. Not even a call from my sister. 

My stomach curls. Yes, I haven't been the best sister in the world but I would have thought they'd check to see if I was okay after-

Another knock on the door. This time it's a sweaty young man with grocery bags straining his skinny arms. His name tag reads Reggie.

I flush in embarrassment realizing the kitchen is preoccupied with the handyman and there is no table to speak of yet. "Set them on the living room floor. Sorry." I babble some other sort of unnecessary excuse.

"Sure thing. I'm Reggie by the way."

His arms shake with the effort of holding a week's worth of groceries.

"So you live here." The young man asked. While I searched my wallet for bills.

"So I do." I hand him a twenty.

He pockets it while nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen counter. "I'd be careful if I were you. Young people like you tend to disappear out here and not come back."

_ We're the same age.  _ Is what I meant to snap but I'm honestly curious about what he told me.

"Like animal attacks or something?" I haven't heard any rumors about it. 

"Nope, human. It's why me and my friends don't make it a habit hanging here."

A chill crawls up my spine. I consider asking more questions, however, part of me doesn't want to know.

With a cringe-inducing wink, the boy walks out the door.

I despondently stay stock still. Disappearings huh?

During the handyman's explanation, I have Reggie's words bouncing around in my head.  _ Disappearing, human, no coming back.  _ Without meaning to I find my eyes glued to the window. That asshole is probably saying that to scare you. You know, like a crude joke as a way to welcome you to the neighborhood. Don't listen to him. I try to sweep it under the rug.

It doesn't calm me.

__________________________________ 

  
  


Jason can tell when the waning days of spring are over and the season melts into summer. Teens will be showing up soon and he has been preparing with new traps and tricks over the winter months reading through the campground books during having nothing else to do except study and prepare.

Sometimes his mother sends him to perform benign tasks such as stealing candles and wires from neighboring homes. However that is rare since he always keeps mental stock of everything he has like wires, cables, oil, hatchets, ropes, boots.

At this moment though, having nothing to do, he savors the silence. Just the woods speaking in bird chirps with rustling winds and his mama for company as it was meant to be since he was young. 

He watches the lake from a vantage point on top of a jutting rock, the expanse of the blue serene surface occasionally interrupted by a mosquito dipping down creating ripples of perfect circles over the water.

The memories of children's laughter are scattered around the camping ground in spring shower puddles on forgotten walkways. They are best forgotten. Why would he like to actively recall how cruel children were to him? Bad memories. Horrible.

A couple of ducks spot him on the rock and waddle their way up causing a ruckus of noise all the while. A brown male duck is especially eager for food he flaps his wings and nasally honks for attention. Chicks run after their mothers, getting bold enough to jump atop his foot and investigate the shoelaces. He inches down to ruffle the downy soft feathers of a Canvasback's head but the ducks, seeing that he has no food, descend upon his gloved hand with pecks of outrage

The day is almost over and though he'd like to stay and watch the sunset he has one last duty to attend to. One that he hasn't checked on since last night.

Fondly petting the one tugging his pants he gently pushes them aside and steps down. The ducks quickly disperse into the lake except for two buffleheads that insist on following him. Grabbing his machete before leaving the campgrounds he carefully closes a semblance of a gate to keep the ducks here and continues on. He hears them at having been blocked and this slightly amuses him.

The three tripwires he had set up at dawn appear unrung. The metalwork is expertly hidden by grass and foliage.

It's a long way to what used to be the hunters land and the lights are the first thing seen. The girl is in the cabin scurrying about like a mouse trying to clear a burrow. He sees that most of the photos that once decorated the walls are gone.

Earlier before he left he saw her talking on the phone, was she enticing friends? Getting this place cleaned before destroying it?

The radio is not on. Which upsets him. This is around the time where the old hunter would turn it on and it's what filled his dusk hours. He hopes she'll turn it on again to continue the same routine.  _ Why hope? _ She'll bring trouble soon outsiders always do. Then she'll be dead and he'll take it. Mama would love a radio to listen to while he's away. She gets lonely without him physically filling the space of the room.

There is no broom this time her hands hold a tin can that she rifles through plucking paper out and setting it somewhere away from his sight and talking. She glances out the window and for a moment he's sure she sees him but her eyes pass over him and settle on the corner. She's looking for someone in the dark. The woman does this several times while pacing, maybe she does suspect something. Her shoulders are tense and her face is strained in an effort of normalcy.

Do you know? Who told you? He wonders.

The dying light bulbs offer little in vision. The majority of the light stems from the fireplace which roars gently hand casts an orange glow to the room and to the woman that resides there. Skin glowing gold. 

Tentatively, she turns the knob like yesterday and rolls back on the balls of her feet as the music comes through, she relaxes. 

This song is slow and syrupy. A new kind of music he's never heard before but not the kind his victims seem to love playing.

Gingerly he sits at his usual perch about to begin sharpening his weapon to the lull of the radio and the screaming cicadas. But she draws his attention again.

Her lips draw into a small tired smile and she sways softly back and forth to the music, eyes closed and the peaceful expression cement her brows into perfect arches.

He's seen girls dance before. For boys in their company, they slither and shake. Inviting them. And the boys would tumble with them on to sleeping sacks, grass or whatever surface they could find with the mindless joy of animals. This had always caused his mother to hiss and his gut to churn in anger.

Not when this woman does it, apparently. There are no hormones in the air or teenage boy panting. Just a quiet movement. No expectations. Because she's not doing this for anyone, only herself.

_ Which means you shouldn't be watching either.  _ His mother's voice scolds him. It isn't often that he is overtaken by societal standards of what he should and shouldn't do, having been removed from society the majority of his life. He doesn't know why he has to look away but like the good son he prides himself to be he obeys.

He turns from the sight presented in the warm glow of firelight, leans back against the cold bark and begins to sharpen his machete. The music plays on. More peaceful than any forest made tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated. Even it's just to flame me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one guys.

The third week is a lot easier thanks in part to being able to take a shower. You can't even begin to imagine the disgust i felt when looking down at the rusty drain at the dirt and grime flowing away. 

That's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy.

I'm fresh-faced and smiling when Ricky arrives. The lady tells me to sign as she handed me the dog crate with a clipboard on top. I do it fast, I can't stop smiling. My cheeks are numb from it.

I'm aching to hold him s furry little body to me as I unlatch the metal door.

"Ricky?" I call into the dark crate.

A curious eye peeks out at me then excitedly whines 

"Hey, baby how you've been?" I open the crate. He bumbles out immediately and jumps into my arms.

I'm laughing with each lick he bestows upon my face. Looks like another shower is in order. I rub his flat face gently with my hand as he continues to lick between my fingers. "Aw, I missed you too precious."

It's been hellish without my best friend here. My rambling thoughts are enough to drive a man insane. I almost caved and called my family first. 

But now Ricky's here to talk some sense into me.

I scratch his ear as he pants and peer down into his one eye. So large and magnified with doe-like expectation compared to his other squinted red eye. A disability he inherited from his mother.

My ex had once said when we got Rick from the adoption center that we should have gotten a better-looking dog. Shtzu is expensive and had the money would guarantee a handsome puppy. Shocked when one-eyed looking mat came out with the proclaiming. " This your new dog!" Then he suggested we get a refund. Fucking asshole. My baby is perfect just the way he is 

"John's gone now, Rick. It's just you and me in your new home." Not so prince charming is in the past now for all the rifts he has woven. The blindfold he gripped to my eyes.

"Wanna see outside?" I jump up with him in my arms. It's a pretty day outside, too pretty to spend inside this fixer-upper a moment longer but I truth this past week I haven't been out much. 

The cabin is a serious project that I'm loving to do, just call me a DIY master. I fixed some wires all by myself and only managed to get electrocuted three times. And then voilá! porch light.

He is wiggling in excitement when I open the cage door. The idea of an open space free of cement and people is a foreign concept to him. My apartment was a small two-bedroom with spots he wasn't allowed to be in.

I bend down kissing his forehead. My hands release him from the leash. "The world is your oyster, Rick."

I watch him run around in circles zooming through the grass so fast his body blurs only pausing to throw himself on the ground for a roll.

I'm laughing. The first one in ages since.. I can't remember. He looks so happy to have room to really stretch his legs, I'm half tempted to join him on the ground. Belly up and let the clouds pass by.

As quick as a whip he is running again

At one point he travels too far into a large canopy of trees. Disappearing. I stand for a solid thirty seconds uncomprehending. A bright smile slowly turns into a frown as I wait for his return for a hot minute.

Then I chase after him.

"Rick? Ricky!" I'm not worried about being able to find my way back. Everything's a dark green bar as I look through the tree shrubs and grass trying to keep track of the gray body that yips and runs faster than I can catch up.

God, I'm so stupid he was probably overwhelmed with his new space. I should have done it slowly. I saved it for tomorrow. Where's my baby? I run past fallen trunks and piled leaves.

"Ricky -"

I trip and smack through branches.

My head slams against the floor hard. my vision goes white and I spit the earthy flavor of dirt out of my mouth. Ricky sees me down and chambers on top of me. Whining in concern.

It's funny when I manage to sit up l can't see anything that would have caused my fall. There are no rocks or tree roots jutting out of the ground.

I run my ankle thumbing the red mark...it looks like rope burn.

Ricky gives a big lick to my cheek and it throbs. "Bad dog," I mutter into his neck and carry him back into the house


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes he wishes he was a buck.

He can stand for hours not doing anything but wander the forest. The passage of time unaffecting him. 

He remembers when he was young and he and his mother first arrived at camp Crystal lake his mother had woken him up early in the morning and let him downstairs to point outside the window and a doe grazing at trees with her fowl.

And his mother had to lean down to whisper. "Just like that deer does to her fowl, mama will always protect you." laying a kiss at his forehead. The warmth of her lips put him at ease.

Now, It's cold. He is always cold. The ability to feel warmth has long fled him since those kids chased him into the blue all those years ago.

But, yes back to bucks. The deer population here don't like him, seeming to tolerate his presence a small amount more than others. They pull at his clothes and fake charge at him. 

Despite this he feeds all his animals in the morning and likes feeding the deer most of all.

The way they delicately leap and trot from place to place brings a small measure of entertainment other than the ducks and the radio.

He takes pleasure in killing but it can be tiring. Deers have no worries of the outside world.

The bell rings and it's not the girl's but one he had set up close to the lake. Near the prestine looking docks. He picks up his bow and is off. Maybe if he'd lingered just a second. He would have heard the other bell ring not even a minute after and the radio girl would be dead.

  
  


________________________________

  
  


Weeks here and I begin to have the eerie feeling that I'm being watched. It occurs in the late evening and earlier morning, a prickly sensation. At the back of my neck, I've scratched at from time to time.

I have to remind myself that no one is here for miles. It's silly, not much people way out here prefering to keep to the more tourity areas that offer access to the lake.

I ignore it the best I can and Ricky makes it pretty easy.

While sanding some of the floorboards one in particular stands out as very loose, standing out like a bruise against the newly polished wood. A bit rotten looking. I lean on one hand to see if it gives and wince when it sinks into the floor. "Fuck." A small stream of blood starts. It's a tiny cut with no splinters.

I pause before I could go to the bathroom, there is something under here, a dark cloth. I remove the plank complelty from the rest. Startling Ricky with the loud crack, and pick up a rolled up book, caked in dust and dirt.

This is a picture album. My family is there, my siblings and cousins growing up. On one page I flip through there is an old man gazing fondly at a baby.

I turn the back of the photo. Reading the cursive ink writing on the back. The baby is me. This strange uncle loved me and I don't remember a thing about him. Tears blur my eyes

Ricky, the bag of lazy bones, trots up to me and licks them up. Until I laugh and push him off, kissing his fur and cradling him close as I examine more of the items

The next paper, separate from the book is rolled into itself in a scroll-like fold. The paper is very fragile with moth eaten holes. Careful of its tears I open it. Not comprehending the zigzagging lines at first. I expected another family memory.

It's a map of the forest and he marked his land clearly with a measured rectangle the rest of the map is labeled strangely. 

A big red unevenly drawn novel encircled the forest next to his home. 

There are little human figures with arms raised up in a panic. No expression on them they are, after all, stick figures but there flailing arms convey the message clearly.

Mantente alejado. Trampas. Stay away from here. Traps.

Cables trampa. Aqui. A wire is here.

Escuché gritos por aquí. I heard screams from over here. 

Aqui vive. Here it lives. A black figure stands tall with a knife in his hand.

This sentence is scrambled shakily. The devil watches.

I'm shocked, mind racing at what this could mean.

Was he suffering from dementia? That would explain the weird photos, map, and misplaced deer head. My sorrow increases ten fold.

Then a new idea dawns on me, a slow index finger moving up the spine, I remember what that grocery guy said. The disappearance?

Had he seen what walked the woods. Is it real?

Either way I don't want to know any more.

_______________________________________

The girl he keeps tied isn't very kind. She screams and begs for her life. The sound is jarring and out of place in the tunnels, annoying him further by scaring away the rats that call this place home but keeping her quiet is easy, he takes a foot towards her and the lips slam shut cutting off.

She isn't much trouble. Attempted an escape plan and never got so much as a step off the mattress. 

Why is she here?

The resemblance is strong. The desperation to believe stronger. He wants the world to give him the comfort it took from him that awful day.

"When are you letting me go?"

He gives her a can of soup and pets her honey blond hair, ignoring the flinch she gives and the nagging in the back of his head saying it's too long to be mamas, too bright.

He stays running a hand up and down until the sobs become sniffles.

Wanted or not what Jason didn't realize was that his life was on the brink of becoming more complicated much to his mother's ire and affection. 

* * *

_When she was a young woman and learned of the baby she carried she was overcome with joy and shame, demanding his father to share the consequence of their actions. He married her and she had Jason in a sweaty hot panic. A happily ever after that was not to be. The bills were over due, the beers easy to throw and promises were tossed to the wind. The outside world was toxic and it took her boy early in life_.

Happy. Her innocent sweet little boy didn't deserve his fate. He deserved to be happy.

* * *

The radio is on. He goes to his claimed space not sure what to do with himself, an emotion wells up inside as he watched her pad out the door, bare foot and shaking a plate of scraps.

From rustling bushes raccoons emerge and unafraid walk up the porch and reach for the plate paws raised.

A song croons out dizzyingly low and she bends down, laughing as she feeds them.

Delicate fabric wrapped around her she sits same as him. Raccoons on one side, little dog on the other. Staring up at the sky as if she has never seen it before.

For an instant. A tiny millisecond, he wishes he could see her face in its entirety not just from one side profile.

This woman seems real, the moment intimate. More so than the teens he murders.

He can't say why yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. Yall have no idea the week I had.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys this where you should be mindful of tags. There is an attempted assault in this chapter but nothing happens

Apparently I can't have too much time to myself. Now that the house is fixed of issues I move on to small ones and I mean miniscule. Is the sink knob squeaking? Fixed. Crack in wall? Does that one window make a weird sound? Fixed. 

Anything and everything to keep busy and thoughts from wandering to that paper. The scrawling words that engraved themself into my mind. Stuffed rudely back into boards meant to be forgotten.

And when I'm not fixing I'm adding. Another mental list to my endless supply. How about a bird house for the bluejays? How about three?

I'm ordering wood and glass for a garden shed. This isn't a waste of time, I tell myself. I've always wanted to grow my own fruit and veggies and now is a good time. The weather is hot and a thriving environment for a small pot of an orange tree sapling I bought. It's the only fruit plant here currently but a variety of small succulents keep them company.

My last plant buy of the day is a fly trap that comes with a bonus packet of tomato seeds. I spend hours daydreaming what plant should go where and how the green house would look like.

Amidst all the comotion and planning I gave myself is also the tiny part of me that feels...frightfully alone.

It's small though! Barely noticeable! Brought on by that stupid paper reminding me that even if the legends of a woodsy killer were true, no one would come and help me because no one cares.

I have Rick to keep away the worst of the loneliness and fear and he does so spectacularly, yapping at butterflies and following my heels around the house perimeters. I dabble in arts and paint the scene so I can remember the acetylcholine of this moment. At night, staring out the window to endless stars he is there breathing and snoring as loud as a motor.

It's not enough.

Why did I move if I'm the same here as I was out there? Because I could, because there was nothing for me to do. Dead end jobs at retail answering 'can i help you mam?' And dying a little inside. The fear of the streets became monotone I hope it's the same for this position 

A boogeyman in the woods! Who would be stupid enough to believe that? Would you move out of this paradise for a stupid rumour?

So what if sometimes I swear that the physical weight of eyes lurking from outside left me trembling. Turning into bed early. It's easy to ignore once I close the curtains

I rinse dishes in a methodical manner, not paying attention to the glass in my hand

The day I tripped left a red mark on my ankle. It didn't bleed but scratched off enough skin that it will probably stay as a scar. If it was rope or- or a branch that brought me down it would not be so clean as the fine red line.

My hand stops scrubbing.

I walk to the place I tripped and crouch in the dirt. Sticks and pebbles digging into my shins. I pat the ground my hand seizes a thin rope, a trip wire.

The sight of it in my hand doesn't seem real. All that it implies is too loud and can only think of a single thread of thought.

Someone's been near my house and it's a physical human being.

_It's easy enough to ignore and go about your day after, right?_

I don't step outside for three days.

* * *

In the living room a sweet blues is being sung. After that the slow strumming of guitars and a woman's voice. Despite it the atmosphere is still tense. 

Ricky yelps and paws my knees. Jumping up and down wanting to be picked up and held like the baby he is. Can anyone resist that big empty eye of his? I feel safer just looking down at him. I grab him and spin around the fire lit room. He loves it by the way of his tail.

"Now I'm thinking maybe I was stoned

I felt my feet lift off the ground

And my heart was screamin' at my bones

I need you closer…" I hum to his furry face, and for the first time since coming here feel content down to my toes. I sway with him pressed tight in my arms where he belongs, Rotating in spins that I think would match the atmosphere of a ball.

A knock comes to the door. I am on alert. I put Ricky down and frown, peeking out the window doesn't help much. Against my better judgement I open the door.

A familiar face in an oversized gray hoodie greets me with a plastic smile, looking paler then I remember. Bags under eye, sweat stained wife beater, the whole shebang.

"Hey, stranger" voice husky, it's been a long time since I heard it. Even longer since it was filled with gentle timbre. John.

"What are you doing here?" I spit.

I sorta sensed it was him before I opened the door, knowing instinctively that if there's anyone to ruin a sweet moment when you least expect it with a fire storm of shit it would be him and whatever shifty problems he brings trailing after.

His fake smile strains. "You should be a little nicer to me." He walks in without another word making me squeeze myself back against the doorframe.

I was about to tug his collar out but one glance at 

He's left an empty pack of beer strown about my lawn. 

Like old times.

He scans the place and wrinkles his nose like he smelled garbage. The photos that I decided to leave up catch his eye and so does Ricky when he gives a slow whine on the grandma chair.

John bends down and mimics having a treat for him. "Hey buddy." When Ricky backs off to the kitchen he scowls. "He never liked me"

"That makes two of us."

I force myself to ask. "How are things back home?"

He nonchalantly takes a seat at my table, the chair, made for someone like me, quakes under his weight. "Lost my job."

"Shit, what happened?" I wince in sympathy. Ex or no, being fired takes an emotional toll on people. I stand in front of him and put a hand to his shoulder, a stale consolation.

He shrugs. "Nothing. They just laid me off. Like that. As if I was trash " and that's the sad ending to lots of folks in the city, one minute you tell yourself that even if you have a tedious job at least it brings bread to the table and the next, due to the economy or whatever bullshit the big man up top says, you don't even have that. The outside world truly is poisonous and those least prepared take the brunt of it. I'm reminded that while I'm alone here in my new home at least I'm free from a boot.

"To be honest nothings been the same since you left." His eyes drill holes into my face and I study the window once more. John's dose of reality is appreciated but I need him to leave for both our sakes before I do something I regret. 

I snort in reply which makes him cooly glare. Pitch black just like all the other nights with not a branch out of place. Was it my imagination or did one bush move?

John cups my face to bring my attention back and I shake his grip. Snapping at the touch "Baby. Come back with me." His blue eyes are red and watery searching me for an answer I refuse to give.

Then he heartedly pleads. "We can even get married like you wanted."

I stiffen and turn away."Don't you-"

To my absolute horror he gets down on one knee. "Darling, will you marry me?"

"Fuck off." I snap, my gut lurching in shame. This isn't a nightmare, I'm not dreaming. Good ole John always mockine like this 

He launches up to his feet again. Face turning red, clearly not the response he was expecting. "What the hell! I'm doing what you wanted!"

"Yeah, when we were seventeen. Just get out of here."

Frustration and panic light up his eyes, feverish in a way that I've never seen them. "Come on, help me out here. I really need the money."

So that's what this is all about. Honestly it's a relief. "Fine, I'll send it, just get out!" I yell back.

Next thing I know I'm staring up at the ceiling with the entire left side of my face throbbing. I forgot he tended to resort to violence.

"Don't you fucking scream at me." I don't have energy to spit something back as he pins people down, still reeling from the vicious hit.

But from the looks of it he came out worse. It's like he's the one that got hit. Crying in panic at what had just done, (yeah, classic John alright, trying to make me feel guilty for something he did) mumbling half-hearted apologies yet he makes things worse for both of us with his next action. Was this his plan? Lull me with talks of struggle and old times-Fucking marriage purposal- only to do this.

Ricky is barking like crazy somewhere far off. I want nothing more than to comfort him. A loud noise that resonates with my mind's eye blocks the comforting words that would have come.

I'm screaming.

Before he could unzip, blood sprays over my face and his weight crashes somewhere else.

____

When the police ask what happened to him I lie through my teeth.

"I don't remember."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait.

The local police department are here for about four days before considering this a closed case. He's dead. I'm alive. Nothing more to see.

The officers suspect that I'm lying yet they don't question me further. The cover story I came up with was last minute and painfully obvious. My ex attacked me for money. I managed to get the upper hand by swinging a kitchen knife that miraculously took his head off in a single clean swipe. A move that would require my body weight doubled.

In the moment that I finished reciting my version of events they stare long and hard at each other. Solemn. 

They know what happened. 

It's an open secret. 

The whole town is in on it. 

In the mirror I have stitches. They fell jagged, Away from the hovering nurses my hand palms the ugly cut on my forehead. The splotchy color isn't going to get me any new dates soon.

I smile. Fuck, do I know how to pickem'.

He's dead. They took his body without investigating further the scene of the crime is wiped clean. Though I spend as little time as possible in the living room. The first night I spend the entire day looking at the ceiling, when I get up it's to let Ricky do his business.

My bed is the safest place to be. I feel numb for a multitude of days. Paranoid

I almost died. I was almost raped

All I'm left with is fear. He was so big...to think he's out in the woods. Lumbering around….

and curiosity. How did he know I was in trouble? Why did he save me?

The memory of John doesn't fade but it takes the backseat to a pressing question. Likely for the best. If I linger on it any longer I'll brake down into tears.

Who is the man that killed John? There wasn't enough time for me to take him in. He came all too suddenly when I was begging for a way out. Like an angel. A huge shadow. The arch of the machete and the spraying blood haunts the visage of my home. He's a cold blooded murderer, I witnessed it with my own eyes. He saved me. Does he often leave people alive when he attacks?

He never attacked my uncle, but he was still afraid of him.

I open the door for Ricky and scrutinize the trunks of trees for a trace. With his body mass he'd be noisy among the foliage.

Is he watching me?

I bring my hand slowly up and wave hello. Then immediately feel silly.

It's been a full week since the incident. No sign of him, however it's not like I sought him out. 

The pots on my porch have ready to pluck vegetables. I crouch down and dig one out. Brushing off the dirt and careful of roots. The carrot is small and twisted. Kinda reminding me of a pecker I saw at the YMCA washer room. Did I plant them right? Did everything the gardeners manual said.

The rest of the carrots turn out the same. I put them in the basket I weaved one after the other. Ricky takes one out of my hand and buries it. I shout after him but ultimately decide that he can have it. Probably covered in slobber anyways.

As the dog trots up the stairs I wipe my brow with the back of my hand, brushing the freshly applied bandages. "Damn it Rick, I'm trying my best."

He barks and pulls on the basket handle 

it gives me an idea. A thank you basket! 

Pulling the rest of the finished carrots out. I grab some apples from the fridge. Whatever vegetables and fruits I could find in the drawer.

Then I tie one of my hair bows for a finished touch. The basket isn't near full. Maybe a loaf of some made from scratch bread. It takes the rest of the day to make it, throughout I'm humming. I make the bread big and thick, 

I sprinkle sesame seeds. I hope he'll like the bread cuz I'm tempted to eat it. Something is missing. The bread is wrapped and the vegetables are tied together in stalks.

I want to give him a physical gift. 

What could a man appreciate. I don't got much of a guess. Before John my dad was the only man I knew. He was stoic but loving for the two years I stayed with him after my aunt lost custody of me, working long hours at a mechanics shop and coming home with aching bones. Dad would appreciate a gift that served a purpose.

I come up with some heavy duty gloves. They'll last him a long time. 

With the basket done I put on a dress. It's functional with large pockets and linen sleeves a subdued color. It's embarrassing to admit i hovered between what I should wear to meet the guy that killed someone in front of me. 

I take careful steps outside shutting the door, Ricky wants to follow me, it's best for him to stay inside. 

The sun pours down and I nervously bite my lip as I reach my property edge to a big rock where I lay the basket. 

"Hi....it's the girl you saved a while ago. I brought a gift for you."

The birds tweet and wind blows a lock of hair out of place. There isn't a response from him. Not that I expected any.. 

"I just wanted to say thank you. Without you he would've-" I cut myself short at the words. Don't think it.

"I'm thankful you stopped him."

I walk back inside.

The next day the basket Is still there. I sigh.

The carrots, apples, lettuce and bread is wrapped and untouched. I'll give it to the raccoons

The gloves are gone and so is the quickly scribbled thank you note.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated.


End file.
